


Stars

by SovereignViolette



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A subtle mention of Clint Barton, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Semi-hurt Tony Stark, Semi-little-shit Steve Rogers, Sorry Not Sorry, Tumblr Prompt, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SovereignViolette/pseuds/SovereignViolette
Summary: Tumblr Prompt: "How many stars does it take?"





	

“How many stars does it take, Capsicle?”

Steve looked up from his book to watch Tony Stark saunter into the room, one hand twirling a stylist and the other flicking through something on his StarkPad. Steve tilted his head, a small smile tickling one corner of his mouth. It might have been spotted with grease, but Tony was wearing the dark cherry red sweater he’d gotten the man last Christmas. It almost dwarfed Tony’s frame, thanks to it having been snagged on Dum-E and tools and table corners. It could have been in shambles, and Tony still would have worn it, Steve knew.

“For what, Tony?” Steve finally answered.

Tony flopped onto the couch next to him. “How many stars does it take to make a national icon happy?”

Steve blinked. Was this Tony being snarky, sarcastic, or curious? Studying him, Steve found Tony refused to look at him, seemingly half-absorbed by whatever blue prints he was editing. But Steve knew Tony; had been on the team and worked with the man long enough to recognize his tells. He refused to look at Steve, trying to play off his question’s seriousness, body deceptively loose except for the line of tension in his neck and shoulders, tone of voice deliberately careless but had an undercurrent of a genuine desire to know the answer.

He did smile then. Tony was fishing for an idea of what to get him for Christmas. It was understandable, since Steve lightly scolding him for buying out a man’s art store purely to fuel Steve’s hobby last year. Tony was really trying to die down the exaggeration this year.

Heart warming, Steve set aside his book and wrapped an arm over the back of the couch. Tony stiffened, but almost immediately relaxed, playing it cool.

“Am I wearing a good after shave this time, Oh Captain My Captain?”

Tony was all about “go big or go home” and “make it count and make it flashy”. It’s what he understood best. So Steve would have to _speak his language_ , so to speak.

Steve leaned in and nuzzled the other man’s scruffy cheek with his own clean-shaven one. Tony stopped breathing beside him. “I’d say yes,” Steve said just below Tony’s jaw.

He felt Tony swallow against his chin. “Steve? Uh, have you been hit with sex pollen or something? Maybe a magical aphrodisiac?”

It was just like Tony to babble. He did it all the time, really. It’d annoyed Steve before—still did, sometimes—but the trait was endearing now. “Neither,” he answered. Backing off so he could look Tony properly in the eye, he said, “Ask me again.”

Tony’s eyebrows furrowed, confused. “Ask what?”

Steve raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Recognition lit up Tony’s chestnut eyes. Just as quickly, wary suspicion lined every inch of Tony’s face, settled in his frowning mouth. But Steve watched that tentative hope Tony seemed reluctant to show spark in his eyes, as though if he did, Steve would squash it viciously.

Someone made Tony feel like that. Steve had never wanted to punch a nameless person’s face in so much before.

Licking his lips, Tony asked, “How many stars does it take to make you happy, Steve?”

Steve reached out and caressed Tony’s cheek with his palm. “One.” His hand slipped through wild, unbrushed hair and gently gripped the back of Tony’s neck. “ _You_.” He pulled Tony in for a kiss. It was sweet and surprisingly chaste, despite Tony’s extensive history. Tony whimpered, hands fisting the front of Steve’s shirt in his hands, and yielded to Steve. Steve’s heart warmed; Tony was allowing _him_ to set the pace.

Despite the slick tendril of heat curling in his lower abdomen at the thought, Steve did nothing to deepen the kiss. Instead, after just a moment, he leaned back to share the other man’s air. He grinned boyishly at the dazed genius. Tony came to seconds later, and then rolled his eyes at Steve’s smile.

“Shut up, Steve.”

“Make me,” Steve challenged.

Tony raised an eyebrow at the other man’s cheek. Then, a small, shit-eating smirk spread across his face. Tony climbed into Steve’s lap, knee on either side of his thighs, and leaned in close enough to purr, “Don’t mind if I do.”

And boy, did he.

 

 

 

**Later: Clint**

 

“Aw, c’mon! Seriously?! This is the communal couch!”

**Author's Note:**

> Clint does not appreciate the communal couch being used for fun times.


End file.
